Episode 22: Kidnapped
by heisey
Summary: Jim and Christie go out on a date, but nothing is ever easy for Mr. and Mrs. Dunbar.
1. Chapter 1

**Episode 22: "Kidnapped"**

_Part One _

_Prologue: Sunday Morning_

Christie was wide awake. She glanced at the clock: 3:17 a.m. Moving carefully and quietly so as not to wake Jim, she got out of bed. The apartment was chilly, and she shivered as she put on her robe and slippers and padded into the living room. She lit a candle and sat down on the couch, trying to quiet the swirling emotions which had made sleep impossible.

It had been an eventful ten days – traveling to Paris to oversee the magazine's spread on the fall collections, then putting it all together after her return. But it wasn't jet lag that was keeping her awake. That evening, Jim had taken her out on the date he'd promised her before her trip. They had an early dinner at a Mediterranean-style restaurant on the Upper West Side. She told him all about Paris, and he told her about the case he'd cleared while she was away. By the time they finished their meal and were waiting for their coffee, talk seemed unnecessary. She reached out and took Jim's hand, and they sat in companionable silence, holding hands across the table, until the coffee arrived. Jim was right, she thought. He wasn't the only one who missed spending time together. She missed it, too. She once told Jim his work demanded so much of him that he had nothing left for their marriage. Now, she had to admit, the same was true of her. She promised herself that would change. They had been through too much in the last two years to fall back into their old habits.

After dinner, they walked to Lincoln Center for a performance of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. When Jim told her he had bought tickets for the Philharmonic, she was surprised – and touched. Jim wasn't a fan of classical music – far from it. Usually, he didn't even pretend to like it, and when he occasionally gave in and went to a concert with her, he fidgeted impatiently throughout the program. She knew he had chosen the Philharmonic for their date because he knew _she_ would enjoy it. That meant more than she could say.

As they walked hand in hand across the plaza after the concert, the soaring phrases of the symphony's final chorale were still echoing in her head. As it always did, the music had affected her deeply, leaving her moved and exhilarated at the same time. She stopped short when she noticed that Jim was humming – off-key – the first few phrases of the "Ode to Joy." He grinned sheepishly when he realized she'd caught him, and he reluctantly admitted he had enjoyed the concert, too.

Still hand in hand, they walked to the subway and took the train home to Brooklyn. She couldn't explain it, but as she sat in the train next to Jim, Christie felt a closeness and a connection to her husband that she hadn't experienced in a long time. She sensed that he was feeling the same connection. When they arrived home, she started to speak, wanting to tell him what she was feeling, but he touched a finger to her mouth to silence her. "You don't have to say anything," he told her. Without another word, he kissed her and led her to the bedroom. As they made love, she found herself letting down the defenses she had so carefully kept up for almost two years.

Lying in Jim's arms afterward, she tried to make sense of her feelings. She loved Jim, had found it impossible to leave him. But after she learned about his infidelity, she had tried to protect herself by holding back some small part of herself, emotionally. Until tonight. Now she felt the same emotional connection with Jim that they'd had in the early days of their relationship. He felt it, too, she was sure. For two years, she had longed for that connection, but now that they had found it again, her happiness was overshadowed by sadness, when she thought about what it had cost Jim.

Now, sleepless hours later, she was no closer to sorting out her feelings. She pulled her robe more tightly around her as she wondered whether she would be able to sleep at all this night.

The bedroom door opened. "Christie?" Jim called softly from the doorway.

"Over here, on the couch," she answered. He walked to the couch and sat down next to her. "I didn't mean to wake you," she said, "I'm sorry."

"You didn't. But I knew you weren't there. Is something wrong?"

"No. I couldn't sleep, that's all."

Jim put an arm around her and pulled her toward him. "You sure about that? I'm a detective, remember?" He grinned at her. "If something's bothering you, I'll get it out of you, one way or another."

She sighed. "I don't know, Jimmy. I feel like we're really re-connecting with each other – "

"Me, too."

" – and I'm happy about that. But I keep thinking . . . we wouldn't still be together if you hadn't been shot."

"That's true," he agreed, nodding gravely and resting his chin on his folded hands.

"I wanted us to find that connection again, but . . . did you have to lose your sight for that to happen?"

Jim raised his head and turned toward her. "It's a fact, Christie – we wouldn't still be married if I hadn't gotten shot."

"I know, but it feels so wrong to be happy about something that only happened because you're blind."

"Do you remember, when I first lost my sight, how people would tell us it was all part of a higher plan, and I'd be a better person for it?"

"I remember." She shook her head. "I couldn't believe people would actually say that – "

"Me neither," Jim agreed, with a wry grin. "It was a load of crap then, and it still is. But that doesn't mean that something good can't come from this," he said, gesturing at his eyes. "Did I ever tell you what Dr. Galloway said to me, during our last session?"

"No," she replied, curious to hear what the doctor had told him.

"He told me I should take this as an opportunity for a fresh start – as a cop _and_ a husband. That's what this is – a fresh start. You want that, too, don't you?"

"Oh, yes," she whispered, putting her head on his shoulder.

_Scene One:_ _Tuesday Evening_

Jim hung up the phone with a smile. They'd cleared their homicide, and Christie didn't seem upset that he'd had to work late to do it. In fact, judging by the tone of her voice, she had something special planned for him when he got home. He packed up his laptop, put on his coat, and slapped his thigh to signal Hank it was time to go.

"You still here, Marty?" he asked.

"Yeah, just finishing up. If you can wait a couple minutes, I'll walk out with you."

"No, thanks, Christie's expecting me."

"OK, see you tomorrow."

"Yeah," Jim said, and ordered Hank forward.

As he approached the subway entrance a few blocks from the 8th Precinct, Jim noticed how much emptier the street seemed at 10:30 p.m. than it was at the time he usually went home. Still, he focused on his surroundings as usual, in order to stay oriented. A half block from the subway entrance, he sensed more than heard someone close to him. Too close. "Hey," a voice said.

Jim's cop's instincts kicked in. He kept walking and replied warily, "Yeah?" Before he could take another step, two sets of hands grabbed him roughly, and Hank's harness was wrenched from his grasp. "Hey!" he yelled.

He struggled to free himself, but the other men were too large and too strong. Despite his self-defense skills, he was overmatched against two such opponents. They overpowered him and pushed him into a vehicle of some kind. Once he was inside, something wet, with a medicinal smell, was slapped over his nose and mouth. "Lights out," someone said, laughing. As he lost consciousness, he dimly heard Hank's barking growing fainter as the vehicle drove away.

_Scene Two_

As Marty was putting on his coat, the phone buzzed – the internal line. "Damn," he muttered as he reached for the receiver and punched the button for the intercom. "Russo," he barked.

"Get your ass down here, Russo," the desk sergeant, Frank Sullivan, snapped. "Something's happened to Dunbar."

Marty hung up the phone without responding and sprinted for the stairs. "Shit!" he fumed.

A civilian was standing at the desk with Hank. He was young, only about twenty, Marty guessed, and he looked shaken. He was breathing hard, as if he'd been running. "Chris Donaldson, Detective Marty Russo," Sullivan said. "Tell him what you just told me."

"I was walking to the subway and I noticed this, uh – blind guy, with his dog here," he said, gesturing toward Hank. "He was just walking along, about half a block from the subway. A coupla guys came up to him and grabbed him. They shoved him in the back of a van and took off."

Marty's gut heaved. "When did this happen?" he demanded.

"Just a coupla minutes ago. I grabbed the dog and ran all the way here."

"What direction did the van go?"

"East."

"What kind of van was it?"

"I don't know the make, but it was blue. It looked old. I got the license plate and gave it to him," Chris said, indicating Sullivan.

"Good, good," Marty told him.

"We already ran the plate," Sullivan told him. "Came back stolen, of course."

"Stolen from where?"

"Long Island City."

Marty turned back to Chris. "Did you get a look at the guys?"

"Yeah. They looked like a coupla skinheads. One of 'em had an iron cross tattoo on his hand."

"You think you'd recognize them?"

"I think so."

Sullivan spoke up. "I already put the word out to the patrols to be on the lookout for the van, and Dunbar."

"We better make it city-wide," Marty said, "no telling where that van might end up."

"Yeah," Sullivan agreed. "I'll call the captain."

"I need to call my boss and the rest of the squad." Turning to Chris, he said, "Follow me. I got some pictures for you to look at. Bring the dog, too."

When they arrived at the squad room, Marty directed Chris to an interview room. "Just wait there," he said, "I'll have someone bring you some mug books to look at." Hank went straight to his usual place next to Jim's desk. He sat there and let out a little whine. "Sorry, buddy," Marty told him. "Hang in there." He picked up the phone and angrily punched in Lt. Fisk's home number.

_Scene Three_

"What the hell happened?" Fisk asked, striding into the squad room. As Fisk approached, Karen looked up from her computer, and Marty hung up his phone.

"Just what I told you, boss," Marty replied. "A coupla skinheads snatched Dunbar off the street a coupla blocks from here."

"Has anyone told Christie?" Karen asked.

Fisk nodded grimly. "I called her. She hasn't heard anything – from Jim or the suspects. The 8-4 is sending a team over in case they contact her."

"How is she?" Karen asked anxiously.

"She kept it together while I was on the phone with her," Fisk replied, "but – you know, after what happened before . . ."

Karen finished the sentence, ". . . this must be killing her."

"Yeah," Marty agreed grimly.

Fisk got down to business. "Where's Selway?"

"On his way," Marty replied.

"OK," Fisk said, "what've you done so far?"

Marty answered him. "We've broadcast descriptions of Dunbar, the suspects and the van, and the witness – " he jerked his head toward the interview room " – is looking through mug books. The car was stolen from Long Island City, so we're looking for any skinheads with connections to that area who might also have some beef with Dunbar."

"Skinheads . . . ," Karen mused. "What about Leonard Mattis?"

"Check him out, too," Fisk ordered.

_Scene Four_

Consciousness slowly returned. The first thing Jim was aware of was a splitting headache. He started to bring a hand up to rub his forehead, but he couldn't raise his arm. "What the fuck," he muttered as he realized both of his arms were pinned to his sides and secured behind his back. Gradually, he became more aware, but he still felt as if he was in a mental fog. Without thinking, he shook his head in an attempt to clear it, wincing when the only result was a new stab of pain.

Struggling to regain his mental clarity, he took a deep breath and tried to assess his situation. Deprived of the use of his hands, he felt more blind than usual – if that was possible. At some other time, he might have appreciated the irony of it, but not now. He was sitting on a chair, apparently tied to it – but where? "Hello?" he called out. There was no response. From the sound of his voice, it seemed he was in a large empty space. He forced himself to concentrate, trying to remember. The last thing he remembered was leaving the precinct with – "Oh, my God, Hank," he whispered, feeling sick at the thought that something might have happened to his dog. "Hank!" he called, trying to suppress a feeling of panic. There was no answering bark or padding of feet.

The dull, cramping ache in his arms and shoulders demanded his attention. Exploring his bonds, he found they were rope, which seemed to be made of some sort of slick material. He tried pulling on them, to see if he could get them to loosen. He thought he felt some slippage. He felt around for a knot, but his numb hands couldn't manipulate it. He tried pulling on his bonds again, and again he felt them loosening. They must have tied some sort of a slip knot, he surmised. They weren't Boy Scouts, that was for sure. After several more minutes, he was able to work his hands free.

He stood up. Bad idea. A wave of nausea and dizziness forced him to sit down again. After the world stopped spinning and his queasy stomach quieted, he stretched his cramped arms and shoulders and shook his tingling hands to restore the circulation to them. He wondered who had brought him here and why they had left him alone – and not very securely tied up. Well, the answer to that was obvious, he thought. He was blind, and therefore helpless. Be thankful for small favors. The first order of business was to get out of there, but without Hank, he needed some other means of mobility. He stood up again, gingerly, and took a couple of tentative steps forward. His foot encountered something soft. Carefully, he reached down to examine it – it was his coat. He picked it up and put it on, pulling his cane from the inside pocket and unfolding it. He was in business.

Now all he had to do was find a way out. He paused for a moment, listening carefully and trying to ignore his throbbing head. He heard faint sounds – street noises, maybe. They didn't seem to be coming from below, indicating he was on the ground floor. He raised a hand, trying to detect any air currents that might give him clues about the location of a door. Sweeping his cane in front of him, he set off in the direction which seemed most promising. After he took a few steps, a thought occurred to him, and he stopped, reaching into his suit jacket for his cell phone. It was gone. He continued on, hoping he was moving in the proper direction. Twenty-five yards later, just when he was starting to think he'd veered off course or – worse – gone in a circle, he found a wall. He followed it, hoping there was a door. There was. He was out, onto a sidewalk – somewhere. The street noises seemed to be coming from his right, so he headed in that direction.

As he walked along the sidewalk, he struggled to maintain his concentration. He still felt dizzy and disoriented, and he was unsteady on his feet. He wondered vaguely what time it was and stopped to check his watch: 4:20 – but was it a.m. or p.m.? He couldn't tell. He shrugged and kept walking. He reached a corner. The traffic sounds were louder here, but he seemed to be the only pedestrian. He stopped at the corner and slowly turned in all directions. He didn't feel the sun on his face, so it was still nighttime. Or not. Maybe a building was blocking the sun, or it was a cloudy day. He had no way of knowing. He turned right and walked along the sidewalk, hoping he had reached a major thoroughfare.

After walking two blocks, he stopped, puzzled. What sort of place was this, with no one on the streets? He had heard vehicles passing, but none of them stopped or even slowed down at the sight of a blind man walking alone. He had passed multiple buildings, but there were no sounds coming from inside any of them. Were they abandoned, he wondered, or just closed up for the night?

What he really needed, he decided, was to find a phone. In the past, you could find a public phone almost anywhere in the City – even if there was no guarantee it would be working. Now, with the advent of cell phones, public phones were becoming scarce. He kept walking, stumbling slightly as he encountered an uneven stretch of pavement. He heard a vehicle approach from behind him, followed by the quick yelp of a siren. He stopped and turned toward it, gripping his cane with both hands. The police car pulled to the curb and stopped. A uniformed officer got out.

"Detective Dunbar?" he asked.

"Yes," Jim confirmed.

"Man, are we glad to see you," the officer told him, "every cop in the city is looking for you."

Shit, Jim thought, as he took the officer's arm and allowed him to guide him to the patrol car. After he folded his cane and settled into the car's back seat, he sat quietly and regrouped, resting his chin on his folded hands, while the officer got on the radio to report that he had been found. Suddenly, he realized there were things that needed to be done. "Hey, guys," he said. "Sorry, I don't know your names – "

"Ray Delgado," said the driver.

"Matt Garland," added the passenger.

"We need to put someone on the place where they took me, in case they come back."

"Where was that, Detective?" Garland asked.

"From where you picked me up, go back about two and a half blocks, then turn left. It's a building on the left. I don't know what it is – something big, maybe an empty factory or warehouse, something like that. I left the door open when I left. One other thing – the place had a chemical smell – you know, like it was used for a meth lab."

"We got it," Garland replied, picking up the radio.

"Wait, wait," Jim added, urgently, "I need to call my wife, and they took my cell phone."

"As soon as we get to the precinct," Garland promised him, "we're almost there."

"Where are we, anyway?" Jim asked.

"The 1-0-8, Long Island City."

_Scene Five_

Wearily, Karen glanced up at the clock: 4:30 a.m. This had been the longest night of her life. She didn't know how much longer she could continue to function while in the grip of such anxiety and dread. She looked over at Marty and Tom, seeing the strain on their faces, and knowing the same strain was showing on hers. She had never lost a fellow cop from her own squad, much less her partner, and she prayed she wouldn't learn tonight what that was like. Jim wasn't the easiest guy to work with – he could be demanding and impatient, especially when he needed to rely on her to see for him. But in the past nine months she'd come to respect and look up to him, almost as a mentor, and she even liked him – most of the time. After his struggle to get back on the job after being blinded, then to prove himself after he won his job back, it would be too much to bear if it all ended this night. She didn't want to think about what his wife was going through as she waited for news of her husband. Jim never confided in Karen about his personal life, but he had seemed more "up" than usual the past couple of days, and her intuition told her it had something to do with his wife.

As she looked back at her computer, where she had been attempting to trace the current whereabouts of Leonard Mattis's known associates, Fisk emerged from his office with a smile on his face – the biggest she'd ever seen. "They found him. He's OK," he said.

Overcome with relief, Karen slumped back in her chair and stared at her boss, unable to say a word.

"Where'd they find him?" Tom asked.

"Long Island City. He's at the 1-0-8. They're taking him to the hospital to get checked out, but it looks like he's OK."

"Which hospital?" Marty asked.

"Mt. Sinai."

Marty stood up and grabbed his coat from the back of his chair. "What're we waiting for? Let's get going. And bring the dog."

_Scene Six_

Jim sat on the exam table, submitting – impatiently – to the examination by the ER doctor. "Close your eyes," the doctor directed. Jim grinned at him. " – or not, and touch your right index finger to the tip of your nose. Good. Now, the left. Good."

After complying, Jim protested, "I'm fine. I just feel like I'm hung over."

"Your neurological exam looks good, so I'm inclined to agree with you," the doctor responded. "You'll feel better when we get some fluids in you. I also want to draw some blood and run a tox screen to identify what they used on you."

As he finished speaking, the curtain opened, and Christie rushed to Jim's side. "Jimmy!" she cried. She threw her arms around him and buried her face in his shoulder. Jim embraced her and stroked her hair, murmuring, "It's all right," repeatedly.

"I'll give you some time," the doctor said. "Someone will be in shortly to start the IV and draw the blood. And I'll give you something for that headache, as soon as they get the blood sample."

After a few minutes, Christie composed herself. She found a box of tissues and dabbed at her eyes, then blew her nose. "I'm sorry," she said. "When they told me you were – taken, I couldn't believe it. . . .And then they couldn't find you anywhere – all night long. . . I thought I was really going to lose you, this time – "

Jim reached out and rubbed her back. "Hey, you've got nothing to apologize for. I – " He fell silent, not knowing how to reassure her. The last several hours must have been something out of Christie's worst nightmares. He'd hoped she'd never have to go through anything like that again. He bit his lip, wondering what he could possibly say to her.

"Are you really OK?" she asked after a moment.

"Yeah – really. I just feel kinda hung over from whatever they gave me to knock me out. It's like they gave me a Mickey, or something. I'll be fine as soon as it wears off."

She studied him carefully, as if trying to decide whether she believed him. Then she sat on a rolling stool next to the exam table and took a deep breath before speaking. "I can't do this, Jimmy. Not again."

"Christie – " Jim began, reaching for her.

She rolled back, out of his reach. "You should never have gone back on the job. It's too dangerous."

"But, Christie," Jim said, trying to reason with her, "I wasn't doing anything dangerous tonight. I was just walking to the subway. Besides, we don't know if this had anything to do with my job. We don't even know who the guys were."

"Of course it's the job. What else could it be? And I'm supposed to be OK with it, because you were just walking to the subway? That just makes it worse. Can't you see that?"

"Christie, please," Jim pleaded, "don't do this now." He reached up and rubbed his forehead wearily. "I know you're upset, but – "

"Then when, Jimmy?" She stopped speaking when she heard people just outside the closed curtain. A moment later, the curtain was pulled aside, and the squad entered the exam room.

"Who's that?" Jim asked.

"It's the squad," Christie told him quietly, before retreating to a corner of the room as Fisk and the three detectives approached.

"You OK, Jim?" Fisk asked, looking concerned.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

Fisk scrutinized his blind detective. Jim seemed outwardly OK, except that his eyes looked more unfocused than usual. Fisk wondered briefly if that was even possible, then turned his attention to Christie. "How are you doing, Christie?" he asked.

Managing a weak smile, Christie replied, "I'm fine now, Lieutenant. Thank you."

Trying to suppress a surge of anxiety, Jim asked, "What about Hank?"

"He's OK," Karen told him, gratified to see the relief on Jim's face. "There was a witness, and he brought Hank to the precinct. He's out in the waiting area. One of the ward clerks is keeping him company."

"What happened?" Fisk asked.

"I was walking to the subway from the precinct – " Jim began.

Fisk interrupted. "Yeah, yeah, we know that part – like Karen said, there was a witness. What happened after that?"

"They got me in the van – I guess it was a van – and slapped something over my nose and mouth, to put me under. Next thing I knew, I was tied to a chair in that building in Long Island City. They just left me there alone. I guess they thought they didn't need to keep an eye on me. Or maybe they thought I'd be out longer." He shrugged. "Anyway, they didn't do a very good job of tying me up, so it wasn't too hard to get loose. They took my cell phone but left my coat – I guess they didn't notice my cane in the pocket. I got out of the building, and the uniforms from the 1-0-8 found me. Do we have any idea who the guys were?"

"The witness said they were a couple of skinheads," Marty told him. "He spent the night looking at mug books but hasn't spotted anyone so far."

"The witness also got the van's license plate," Tom added. "Stolen, of course. It turned up dumped in Bed-Sty an hour ago."

"Since we're dealing with skinheads, I've been looking into associates of Leonard Mattis," Karen said. "I could see him getting some guys to do something like this."

"Could be," Jim commented, "we know he has a history of getting guys to do his dirty work for him. But why target me? We found the guy who raped and slashed his sister and ex-wife, for chrissake. He has no reason to have it in for me."

"Unless he wanted to take care of Condell himself," Karen suggested.

"Maybe," Jim replied. He turned to speak to Fisk. "The lieutenant at the 1-0-8 sent a team to keep an eye on the building, in case any of them show up."

"But," Karen protested, "they aren't going to go back there if you're not there."

"I know," Jim agreed. "He got the brass to hold off for a couple hours before releasing the information that I was found. Maybe they'll think I'm still there and come back to check on me."

"It's worth a shot," Fisk agreed. "Did the guys who took you say anything?"

Jim shook his head, "Sorry, no. They put me under as soon as they got me into the van." He paused for a moment, concentrating. "The only thing I remember is one of them saying 'lights out' and laughing, just before I passed out." He gave a quick, humorless grin.

"Anything else for us to go on?" Fisk asked.

Jim thought for a moment. "There were definitely two of them. One was about my size, maybe a little bigger. The other one was a lot bigger – big like a linebacker, you know what I mean?"

"Yeah," Tom agreed. "Sounds like you had no chance against them."

Forgotten in the corner, Christie listened as the detectives continued their discussion. It was fascinating to watch them "bouncing ideas" off of each other, as Jim called it. But she was sick at heart at the same time. Seeing Jim interacting with his fellow detectives and the way he came alive when talking about the case, she knew it was futile to think he would ever give up his job. Just as Jim could never walk away from being a cop, she knew that she would never be able to stop dreading that next phone call – one she was sure would come, some day. She didn't know how she could live with that. She almost wished she and Jim hadn't re-connected. That only made it harder.


	2. Chapter 2

**Episode 22: "Kidnapped"**

_Part Two_

_Scene One_

Detective Pete D'Amato shifted uncomfortably in the front seat of the unmarked. "How much longer you think we're gonna be stuck here?" he asked his partner, Eric Carruthers.

"Who knows?" Carruthers replied. "Those guys ain't gonna be stupid enough to come back here." He gestured toward the vacant warehouse where Jim had been taken.

They sat in bored silence for a few minutes. Then D'Amato spoke up again. "You ever meet Dunbar before?" he asked.

"No. You?"

D'Amato shook his head. "Nope. Guy must be crazy, coming back on the job like he did," he observed.

"Yeah – something like that happened to me, I'd be out the door with my pension. You wouldn't have to ask me twice."

"You got that right. Wonder why he did it?"

"I heard it was some kind of political deal," Carruthers told him.

"Yeah, I heard that, too. But he's lasted – what – six, nine months?"

"Something like that. I bet the rest of his squad is carrying him, though."

"Maybe," D'Amato conceded. "But I talked to the uniforms who picked him up this morning. They said he was just walking down the street, no clue where he was but cool as a cucumber. Then when he got in the car, he started ordering them around, right off the bat."

"You gotta hand it to the guy – he's got balls," Carruthers said. "I'm just glad I didn't get stuck working with him – "

"What's that?" D'Amato interrupted, pointing toward the building entrance.

An old, battered Toyota Corolla pulled up in front of the building. A young man got out, looked around apprehensively, and went inside. The two detectives got out of the car and followed him.

_Scene Two_

Fisk hung up the phone and emerged from his office. "That was Tom Girardi at the 1-0-8," he said. "They picked up someone at the building in Long Island City. They're on the way here with him now."

"How'd they grab him?" Marty asked.

Fisk sat at Jim's vacant desk. "Tom said they went in and took a quick look around the building early this morning. Jim was right – it was being used as a meth lab. They thought someone might come back to finish cooking a batch of meth, so they decided to keep an eye on the place, even after the word was out that Jim was found. The guy showed up about an hour ago."

"Who is he?" Tom asked.

"Name's Steve Johnson," Fisk answered.

"I'll run him for priors," Karen volunteered, then asked, "You hear anything from Jim?"

"Yeah, he's still at the hospital. The doctor wants to keep him for a couple more hours for observation. He was ready to sign out AMA, but apparently, his wife put her foot down and insisted on him staying at the hospital."

"I'll be surprised if she ever lets him out of her sight again," Karen commented.

"You got that right," Marty said. "Did you see the look on her face at the hospital? That was one seriously freaked out lady."

"Wouldn't you be?" Karen demanded. "Her husband gets shot and ends up blind – and now this. That's a hell of a lot to cope with." As she spoke, Karen remembered that wasn't all the Dunbars had had to cope with, but she wasn't about to betray Jim's secret to the rest of the squad – now or ever.

Fisk broke in. "That's enough, " he said, "I know you'd rather yak about Dunbar and his wife, but don't you have work to do?"

"Yes, sir," the three detectives replied in unison.

_Scene Three_

D'Amato and Carruthers escorted Steve Johnson into the squad room. In spite of his tattoos and shaved head, he looked young – and scared. D'Amato took him into an interview room and removed his handcuffs. As D'Amato closed the door, Johnson was sitting at the table, rubbing his wrists.

"He say anything on the way here?" Tom asked.

Carruthers shook his head. "I don't think he's figured out what hit him yet."

"We can take it from here," Marty said. "Thanks, guys."

As they headed for the elevator, D'Amato stopped and looked back. "How's your buddy, Dunbar?" he asked.

Marty seemed poised for a smart-ass comeback, but he simply said, "Still at the hospital, waiting for the doc to spring him."

"Glad he's gonna be OK," D'Amato said.

"Yeah," Marty said to his retreating back. He looked over at Karen. "What'd you find out about this guy?"

"A few collars for drugs, nothing violent. He did six months at Rikers last year for cooking meth."

Marty turned to Tom. "Let's go talk to this squirrel."

"Hey, Steve," Tom began as they entered the interview room. Johnson looked up anxiously at the sound of his voice. "I'm Detective Selway, and this is Detective Russo. We'd like to talk to you, OK?"

Johnson nodded. Tom _Mirandized_ him, then sat next to him.

Before Tom could ask his first question, Johnson blurted out, "I didn't know what they were going to do, I didn't have anything to do with it, you gotta believe me."

"OK," Tom told him soothingly. "Let's start at the beginning. What didn't you know?"

"I didn't know they were going to snatch that – that blind guy. I almost crapped my pants when they did that. I thought we were just going to boost that van, ride around for a while, maybe tweak a little, you know."

"So why'd you go back to the warehouse this morning?"

Johnson swallowed hard, looking guilty. "I was tweaking last night, you know, after – and I used up my stash. I knew there was some crystal there. I thought maybe I could cop some."

From his position at the end of the table, Marty spoke up for the first time. "You know, Steve, I'm havin' a little trouble believing what you're telling us. I gotta tell you, I don't think a jury's gonna buy it, either. You say you didn't know what they were gonna do, but you boosted that van for them, and you drove them to that warehouse after they snatched the blind guy, right?"

"Yes, I swear, it's the truth," Johnson asserted. "You gotta believe me."

"I don't think you understand what you're looking at here, Steve. You aided and abetted a kidnapping. It doesn't make any difference that you were just the driver – you're still on the hook for first degree kidnapping. You know what that'll get you?"

"No," whispered Johnson fearfully.

"Fifteen to life."

Johnson looked to Tom for confirmation. Tom nodded solemnly. "Oh, my God, no."

"We can help you, Steve," Tom said, "but you gotta give us something to show your good faith."

Johnson nodded hopefully.

"You need to tell us who your two friends are and where to find them."

Johnson groaned. "I can't. I'm a dead man if I do that."

"We can protect you, Steve," Tom assured him.

"I can't," Johnson repeated, shaking his head.

"You might as well, you know," Marty told him. "Your buddies are going to think you ratted them out, even if you don't. You might as well get the benefit."

"No, no, I can't," Johnson insisted.

"Suit yourself," Marty told him, as he and Tom started to leave the room.

"Wait," Johnson wailed, "You gotta help me."

No," Marty told him firmly, "you have to help yourself."

Before Marty and Tom reached the door, Johnson spoke up. "Detectives? Can I ask you something?" They stopped and looked back at him. "That blind guy, he wasn't there, at the warehouse – what happened to him?"

"What do you think happened to him?" Marty asked, ominously.

"Oh, shit," Johnson said. Marty and Tom left him sitting at the table, his head in his hands.

After they closed the door behind them, Tom and Marty headed for their desks. When Fisk and Karen emerged from the observation room, Tom said, "We'll let him stew for a while, let things sink in."

"Yeah," Fisk agreed.

_Scene Four_

When she saw Jim and Hank approaching the entrance to the squad room, Karen jumped up from her desk and hurried to greet her partner. "Jim! Are you OK?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," he assured her automatically.

Marty, Tom, and Fisk joined them. After the ritual exchange of "Are you OK?" and "I'm fine," the detectives returned to their desks, and the lieutenant returned to his office.

When Jim and Karen were both seated at their desks, Karen rolled her chair toward him. Lowering her voice, she asked, "How's Christie doing?"

Keeping his voice low, Jim responded, "She was pretty shook up. But she'll be OK," he added, trying to reassure himself as much as his partner. After all, he reminded himself, Christie had been through much worse. But maybe that was the problem. He set those concerns aside, for now. Raising his voice, he spoke to Tom and Marty, "I heard we've got someone in custody?"

"Yeah," Marty replied. "Steve Johnson, the driver. So far, he's not giving up the names of the other two. We were just going to go back in, see if he's wised up since we spoke to him before."

"Good." Jim nodded.

"Hey, Jim, since you're here – " Marty began.

"Yeah?"

" – I want you to be somewhere Johnson can't see you when we go in." Marty looked at Karen, who nodded. "You're going to be watching, right?"

"Yes," she replied.

"When we're almost done, I want Jim to go stand right outside the door. OK?"

"OK," Jim said. "Are you going to tell me what you have planned?"

"You'll see," Marty answered, "oh, you'll see." He and Tom headed for the interview room as Jim and Karen took their places in the observation room.

"Yo, Steve," Marty began, "you gotten any smarter in the last ninety minutes?"

Johnson swallowed hard and nodded. "Yes," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Good," Tom said. "Who were your two buddies?"

"Jason Taylor and Eddie Parker."

"Where can we find them?" Tom asked, pushing a pad and pen toward Johnson, who laboriously wrote down Taylor's and Parker's addresses.

"What happened last night?" Tom asked, when Johnson finished writing.

"Like I said before, we boosted the van, we were just riding around in the East Village. Then Jason spotted that blind guy. He said something like, 'Now we're gonna have us some fun,' and told me to pull over."

"So you did," Marty said, disgustedly.

"Well, yeah. I didn't think they were gonna _do_ anything to the guy, you know?"

"Then what?" Tom asked.

"They got out of the van and jumped him. He put up a pretty good fight – you know, for being blind and all – "

Watching in the observation room, Karen glanced at Jim, but he didn't react to the comment.

"Then they shoved him in the back of the van. Eddie stayed in the back. Jason got in the front and told me to drive. Jesus, I was so freaked out, I didn't know what else to do. After we got over the bridge, I asked Jason what the fuck he thought he was doing."

"And?" Tom asked.

"He told me not to be a wuss, he wasn't going to do anything to the guy. He just wanted to mess with his head, maybe scare him some, because he couldn't see, you know. . . ."

On the other side of the one-way mirror, Fisk and Karen exchanged disgusted looks as Jim muttered, "Son of a bitch."

"Then you took him to that warehouse and just left him there?" Marty asked.

"Yeah, they were gonna come back later, after he woke up, I guess, and – whatever." Johnson shrugged. "I didn't want any part of it."

"You didn't think to tell someone that Jason and Eddie snatched some blind guy?" Marty demanded.

"Hell, no, man – they'd a killed me."

Marty shook his head and stood to leave. Halfway to the door, he stopped and turned back toward Johnson. "By the way, Steve," he said, "the blind guy – he's OK." He stepped to the door and opened it. Jim walked in.

"Steve Johnson, meet Jim Dunbar." Marty paused, noticing the relief on Johnson's face. "_Detective_ Jim Dunbar."

Johnson's face crumpled. "They snatched a _cop_?" he asked, looking sick. Marty walked out of the room, followed by Tom and Jim. "Fuck," Johnson muttered miserably.

_Scene Five_

Fisk put down the phone and came out of his office. "They just picked up Jason Taylor in Bensonhurst. They're bringing him in now.

"_Yes!_" Marty exclaimed.

A half hour later, a uniformed officer escorted Jason Taylor into the squad room. He looked to be about the same age as Johnson, with the same shaved head and tattoos. But even in handcuffs, he had a swagger and insolence that Johnson lacked. "Room two," Marty told the officer, jerking his thumb in the direction of the door.

Fisk came out of his office, moving in the direction of the observation room. Marty looked a question at him. Fisk nodded. "Do it," he ordered. "Karen, Jim, you're with me." They followed him to the observation room as Tom and Marty entered the interview room.

Tom sat across the table from Taylor and _Mirandized_ him. He listened contemptuously to the warnings, responding, "Yeah, whatever," when Tom asked if he was willing to talk. He spoke before either detective could ask a question. "I see you got your blind guy back," he sneered, "sorry about that."

Marty crossed to the table from the windows and leaned over Taylor. "I'm gonna tell you this one time," he said, "you want to watch your mouth, because you do _not_ want to get me any more pissed off than I already am. Got that?"

"Sure, whatever."

"You think you're a comedian, is that it?" Marty demanded.

"Hey, we were just gonna have a little fun with the guy, show him what's what, you know?"

"No, I don't know," Marty said, glaring at Taylor, "why don't you tell me?"

"It makes me sick, you know, all them ni – " he stopped himself when he saw the look on Tom's face. " – all them blacks – and all the rest of them, you know, spics, towelheads, gimps, fags – acting like they're just as good as us, taking our jobs – shit, man, you know what I mean – they're taking over. So Eddie and me, we remembered there was this blind guy here, working as a cop – yeah, like that could happen." Taylor snorted derisively. "He was all over the news a while back – so we got the idea of having a little fun, you know, messing with his head, teaching him a lesson – "

Standing with his head resting against the wall of the observation room, Jim clenched his fist and muttered, "Son of a bitch." Karen gave him a worried look. Fisk scowled, his face reddening in anger.

" – so we watched him for a coupla days – he was clueless, of course – and decided to make the snatch last night. Piece of cake," Taylor boasted.

"You didn't get a taste of his left hook," Marty commented dryly. "Lucky for you."

In the observation room, Karen and Fisk exchanged smiles at Marty's comeback, and even Jim gave a little grin when he heard it.

Taylor ignored it. "Then we dumped him over in Queens. We got tired of waiting for him to wake up, so we took off for a while. It's not like he was going anywhere, he was helpless, you know?" Taylor paused, as if a thought had just struck him. "So how'd he get rescued?" he asked.

"He didn't 'get rescued'," Tom answered. "He got loose on his own and took off while you were gone. Real helpless, huh?"

Not waiting for Taylor to answer, Marty asked, "What about the driver?"

"You mean Steve?" Taylor asked scornfully. "What a wuss. We just had him along to help boost the van and drive. You don't think we'd let _him_ in on it, do you?"

Tom pushed a pad and pen across the table to Taylor. "You're gonna need to give us a statement."

"Sure, whatever," Taylor replied nonchalantly.

By the time the statement was finished, Marty had had it with Taylor. He turned to Tom. "Let's get outta here. The stench is starting to get to me."

"Yeah," Tom agreed, "gettin' pretty stinky in here."

Marty left his spot at the end of the table and started for the door. He stopped before he got there and turned back to glare at Taylor in disgust. "You know, Jason," he snapped, "that 'blind guy,' like you like to call him, is ten times the man you could ever be. You're nothing but a loser, a pathetic loser." Without another word, the two detectives stalked out of the room.

As Marty sat at his desk, he gave a disgusted shudder. "Jesus, I need a shower."

"You're not the only one, bro," Tom agreed.

Fisk came out of his office. "You got his statement?" Marty nodded, indicating the pad on the desk in front of him. "OK. We've got teams sitting on Parker's apartment and his parents' and girlfriend's houses. We might as well pack it in for today. I'll get someone to take Taylor to Central Booking."

"Thanks, boss," Tom said. He and Marty grabbed their coats and started down the hall.

Jim called after them. "Hey, guys – thanks."

"No problem," Tom assured him.

"See you tomorrow," Marty added.

"Yeah. See you tomorrow," Jim replied. He closed his computer and reached for his coat.

"I'll drop you at home," Karen offered.

He was too tired to object. "Thanks."

_Scene Six_

Christie handed her coffee mug to Jim, who was putting the dinner dishes in the dishwasher. When he finished and closed the dishwasher, he said, "About what you said this morning – we should talk."

"What's the point?" she asked. "You're going to stay on the job, even if it kills you." She added bitterly, "Or maybe I should say _until_ it kills you."

He shook his head. "That's not going to happen – "

"How can you say that – after everything that's happened? Maybe you got lucky twice – "

"'Got lucky'?" Jim interrupted. "You think I got lucky?" He gestured at his eyes.

"Oh, great, play the blind card." She turned away from him and walked into the living room. "That doesn't work with me. I remember – even if you don't – how close you came to being dead instead of blind. And now it's happened again."

Jim followed her, then stopped, putting his hand on the column between the kitchen and living room. "You know, Christie, I was never in any real danger from those idiots. They're seriously warped, but they're not killers."

"So what? I didn't know that. No one did. And what about next time?"

"What next time? You don't know there's going to be a next time."

"And you don't know there isn't going to be one," she countered.

"So what are you saying, Christie?" he asked. "You want me to stop being a cop? Is that it?"

"Nice of you to ask," she answered sarcastically, "as if what I wanted counted for anything."

"It does, but – "

"There's always a 'but,' isn't there?"

"If I stop being a cop, I stop being who I am. I don't think you want that – not really."

"How the hell would you know what I want?" she asked bitterly. Without waiting for an answer, she turned away and walked into the bedroom. As she closed the door behind her, she felt her defenses settling inexorably back into place.


End file.
